A Year's Journey through France and Part of Spain, Volume 2 (1777)

In Short

This second volume of a travelogue records a gentleman’s journey across the continent, capturing the essence of life in France and Spain through detailed letters. The narrative serves as a bridge between the grand observations of historical antiquities and the mundane, often irritating realities of road travel. It remains a compelling read because of the writer’s unflinching, opinionated voice and his eye for the eccentricities of daily existence, from the quality of inn sheets to the corrupting influence of royal favorites at the French court.

The Story

The narrative begins with an immersive immersion into the vibrant and sometimes unsettling social fabric of provincial France. The traveler, a man of strong convictions and refined sensibilities, finds himself lodged in Nismes, where he is initially captivated by the elegance of his hostess, only to be jarringly disillusioned by her later appearance in masculine attire—a "horrid" sight that ruins his perception of her virtue. This early encounter sets a tone of unpredictable discovery that defines the entire journey. He moves through the country with a restless curiosity, oscillating between deep reverence for the Roman ruins of Arles—where he muses on the inevitable decay of all earthly monuments—and sharp, critical commentary on the local customs and political history of the regions he visits.

As the journey progresses, the focus shifts to the broader landscape and the people who inhabit it. In Marseilles, he finds a stark contrast to his previous experiences, praising the genuine hospitality of his hosts and the stark, stony plains of the Crau, a place he associates with the ancient legends of Hercules. The author’s itinerary is not merely a record of geography but a collection of social engagements. Whether he is commenting on the elaborate, almost theatrical dress of the peasant women in Macon or lamenting the "horrid jingle" of the seven hundred bells in Avignon, his observations are consistently filtered through his own rigid, yet deeply observant, moral framework.

The latter half of the volume turns toward a more reflective and political critique. The traveler discusses the transition of power from the reign of Louis XV to that of Louis XVI, offering a scathing retrospective on the systemic corruption under the influence of royal favorites like Madame de Pompadour. He paints a portrait of a kingdom once on the brink of ruin, now showing signs of renewal under new, virtuous ministers. Along the way, he intersperses his narrative with accounts of his own social circle, including letters of introduction from the Marquis of Grimaldi, which highlight his standing as a man of some significance.

The journey concludes with a return to the realities of departure. Through his experiences, he has navigated the complexities of international politics, the intrigues of the French aristocracy, and the humble, sometimes deceptive nature of the innkeepers he encountered. His final reflections in Calais, accompanied by a postscript praising the discipline of Irish regiments serving in France, encapsulate his journey as a search for order, quality, and reliability in a world that often disappointed him. He leaves the reader with a final, pragmatic distillation of his experiences—a list of rules for the traveler that prioritizes health, caution, and a healthy skepticism toward the motives of others.

How It Unfolds

The encounter at Nismes The traveler settles into elegant lodgings, initially charmed by his hostess’s grace and whisper-soft voice. His admiration vanishes upon seeing her in masculine attire, leading him to reflect on the fragility of reputations and the oddities of provincial life.

The weight of history He explores the ancient ruins of Arles and the triumphal arches of Orange, using these sites to meditate on the impermanence of human ambition. He balances these grand reflections with the technical details of the architecture, underscoring the endurance of Roman engineering against the decay of time.

The passage through the Crau He describes the vast, barren, and stone-covered landscape of the Crau, weaving in classical mythology to explain the origins of the terrain. This geological curiosity provides a dramatic, desolate interlude before he reaches the more hospitable climate of Marseilles.

Social and political commentary He settles for a time in Lyons and Avignon, observing the daily habits of the residents and the political shifts within France. His narrative turns inward toward the court of Louis XV, where he critiques the institutionalized vanity and fiscal irresponsibility of the previous era.

The return to the coast The journey winds toward its close in Calais, where he reflects on the hospitality of his Irish acquaintances serving in the French military. He concludes by curating his hard-won wisdom into a practical guide, emphasizing the pitfalls of travel and the necessity of personal prudence.

The People

The traveler himself, Philip Thicknesse, is the central, guiding intelligence—a man who prides himself on his discernment and is perpetually wary of being swindled or charmed by the wrong sort. He defines himself against the "adventurers" he meets, positioning his own skepticism as a form of wisdom. His landlady in Nismes, Madame Saigny, serves as the primary example of the traveler's tendency to categorize people quickly; her shift from an elegant, whispered ideal to a "horrid" figure in man's clothing illustrates his deep-seated attachment to traditional gendered expectations.

He encounters figures like the Marquis of Grimaldi, whose formal and polite correspondence serves as a validation of the traveler's own status and "honourable" nature. In contrast, he portrays the likes of Madame de Pompadour not as individuals, but as symbols of institutional corruption, accusing her of managing a vast network of "borrowed charms" to manipulate the French crown. Throughout, he maintains a respectful distance from the common people, viewing the French peasantry primarily as curious spectacles or, in the case of innkeepers, as potential threats to his wallet or his rest.

In Its Own Voice

"I am very certain that a man may travel twice through Spain, and half through France, before he sees a woman of so much beauty, elegance, and breeding, as the mistress of the house I lodge in near this city."

The author introduces his readers to a lodgings experience in Nismes that promises luxury but delivers unexpected social confusion.

"Nothing can be a stronger proof than these ruins, of the certain destruction and corruption of all earthly things; for one would think that the small parts which now remain of this once mighty building would, endure as long as the earth itself."

While surveying the massive amphitheater of Arles, the author pauses to reflect on the fleeting nature of civilization.

"In frontier or garrison towns, where they have a right to examine your baggage, a twenty-four sols piece, and assuring the officer that you are a gentleman, and not a merchant, will carry you through without delay."

In his closing advice to future travelers, the author offers a pragmatic, if cynical, strategy for navigating bureaucratic obstacles.

What It's Really About

At its core, this work is a meditation on the tension between the ideal and the reality of travel. The author is obsessed with the idea of "gentlemanly" conduct, both in himself and others, and he judges every landscape and institution by how well it accommodates his standard of living. Underlying his observations is a profound skepticism of the modern world; he is constantly looking backward to Roman grandeur or forward to a more organized, less corrupt administration. The book asks what a traveler is truly entitled to expect from the world, and it answers that one must be prepared to protect one's own health, money, and dignity against a society that is fundamentally designed to plunder the unsuspecting.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate the sharp, often biting prose of eighteenth-century travel writing will find this volume deeply engaging. It captures the visceral discomforts of the road—the wet sheets, the noisy bells, the damp air, and the constant threat of overcharging—with a level of detail that makes the past feel startlingly immediate. It is not a gentle, romanticized account of a Grand Tour; it is the gritty, unfiltered report of a man who takes his comforts and his prejudices seriously.

One must be prepared for the author’s period attitudes, which are often elitist and occasionally dismissive of those he deems his social or moral inferiors. His tendency to judge people at "first sight" can be jarring, and his lengthy diversions into Latin inscriptions and local administrative history may feel tedious to the casual reader. However, the book succeeds as a primary document of a specific, cynical worldview. It stays with you not because it is a guidebook, but because it is a character study of a man trying to maintain the decorum of an English gentleman while navigating a world that refuses to conform to his expectations. Those who enjoy peering into the mind of a prickly, observant, and deeply human traveler will find much to ponder here.